


lipstick smile

by blackberrychai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Face-Sitting, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Oral Sex, Other, Praise Kink, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sylvain's Bullshit Internal Monologue, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Sylvain Jose Gautier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrychai/pseuds/blackberrychai
Summary: Sylvain wasn't expecting to enjoy it when a girl he's seeing puts some lipstick on him. Luckily, Mercedes is here to help. In multiple ways, it turns out.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58
Collections: Fire Emblem Trans Winter Exchange 2020





	lipstick smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skylark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/gifts).



> Written for Ciry for the FE Trans Winter Exchange 2020! I absolutely loved all of your prompts, but in the end I went for your one of transfem Sylvain exploring gender and gender markers. My mind immediately latched on to how Mercedes likes doing other people's make-up, and produced... this. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A brief note and some disclaimers: this fic features transfeminine Sylvain beginning to explore gender, mostly through sex and external gender markers, but still using he/him pronouns to refer to themself. It's also set pre-timeskip, and therefore shows some of their unhealthy attitudes towards women, plus poor coping mechanisms and self-esteem... issues. Please don't take my writing of these things as approval of them, and read with caution if any of it would be uncomfortable for you to read!  
> That said, content warnings for: alcohol use, self-disgust, and of course all the sexual things tagged.

Sylvain laughs loudly as he wraps his arm around the waist of the prettily blushing girl beside him. Her friend giggles, then leans over to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. He lifts an eyebrow at the two of them as the first one’s eyes light up, and she claps her hands together.

“Oh!” she gasps, then turns to Sylvain. “Will you let us try something?” she asks eagerly.

He spreads his arms, and gives them a flourishing bow. “Ladies, your wish is my command,” he says.

They giggle again, and the second girl takes over. The ball is in full swing by now, and they have to skirt around dancing couples as she leads him to one of the chairs lining the side of the room, then pushes him towards it. “Sit down!” she urges.

Puzzled but compliant, Sylvain does so, and is surprised when she pulls a small tube of lipstick out of a pocket.

“Here!” she says triumphantly, handing it to her friend.

She looks into his eyes as she uncaps it. “Lift your chin up,” she says, sounding surprisingly commanding.

Sylvain swallows, but lets her take hold of his chin and pull the tube over his lips. He feels suddenly frozen, the lively music turning to a confused jumble of noise in his ears. All he can focus on is the point where the lipstick touches his mouth, and the odd sensation it leaves behind, making his lips feel almost heavy. He stares out blankly across the room, and his eyes, somehow, catch those of Mercedes, standing with Annette and Ingrid in the corner of the room. She’s watching him curiously, and smiles when he meets her gaze. Sylvain’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

Then the girl stands back upright again, and lets out a peal of laughter, and Sylvain is suddenly awake again. He grins at the two girls, and hopes they don’t notice how half-hearted it is.

“He looks _lovely_ , don’t you think?” one says. He’s lost track of which one is which by this point, and he forgot their names long ago.

“So pretty!” the other gushes.

Sylvain gets to his feet again, and gives them another mock courtly bow. “Why, thank you,” he says, plastering his grin on. “Now, let me get you two lovely ladies a drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He slips away and hurries over to the refreshment table, where he stares at his face in the side of a shining goblet. The lipstick feels thick on his mouth, and stains it a bright, pretty crimson. He is warped and pulled out of shape in the curved metal, but the arches of his lips are outlined boldly, as clear as day. Putting the goblet down seems to take a herculean effort.

 _Shit_ , he thinks to himself.

  


* * *

  


“Oh, hello Sylvain,” Mercedes says, dropping into the seat beside him the next morning. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

He jolts. “Mercedes? Uh, sure. Don’t you usually sit with Annette, though?”

“Well, yes, but she promised to help Ashe with something today, so she’s sitting with him.”

“Right,” he replies, feeling oddly uneasy. He doesn’t understand why Mercedes makes him feel like this, so strange and raw and vulnerable. Probably something about how her eyes seem to look straight through him.

“Did you have a good time at the ball?” she asks.

Sylvain does his best attempt at his usual grin. “Oh, absolutely. You know, girls, a party… what isn’t there to love.”

She smiles. “It was nice to have an excuse to get all dressed up,” she says.

He’s trying to think of a flippant reply he can give when the professor comes in, and luckily calls Mercedes’s attention away. The moment the class is finished, he escapes, sliding out of his seat before Mercedes can say anything. Back in his room, he sits down at his desk and buries his head in his hands. Today everything just seems to be setting him on edge. When he lifts his head again, his eye is caught by the unopened lipstick that the professor had returned to him a few weeks ago. He’d stopped seeing the girl he’d originally bought it for long before he got it back, and it’s just been lying in a forgotten corner ever since.

Stretching out his hand to pick it up, he notices he’s trembling slightly, and forces himself to still again. He stares down at the small, innocuous tube, and lets the pit in his stomach at the sight of it in his own hand grow and grow. Then he snaps.

He pushes himself to his feet, and strides over to the little mirror on the wall. The cap of the lipstick comes off with a little pop, and Sylvain holds it to his lips, now unable to stop the shake in his hands. Doing his best to mimic what the girl at the ball last night had done, he applies it to his lips. The result is uneven, and he angrily wipes at the places where it’s been spread over the edge of his lips. In the end, it looks smudgy and amateurish, and the colour just makes his skin look starkly, hideously pale. But all the same, just as during the ball, looking at that goblet—something thrums warmly in his chest. Sylvain lets himself revel in it for just a moment, before his heart sinks.

What does this say about him, even? Other than, of course, confirming the fear that has always lurked at the back of his mind that there is something deeply, fundamentally twisted about him. He _shouldn’t_ like this, shouldn’t enjoy looking at his own painted face. Miklan was right all along, probably. He’s worthless, and it’s only a matter of time before everyone else realises and gives up on him too.

  


* * *

  


In a fit of savage rage, he marches into town the next day, and into the first women’s clothing shop he passes. If he’s going to be a disgrace, he might as well do it properly. He flirts with the shop assistant, until she begins to notice that his smile is showing just a few too many teeth, and then quickly purchases the first skirt he likes the look of. It’s a deep, rich blue, probably intended to fall just below the knee, though Sylvain knows it will end up a fair bit shorter on him.

He leaves the shop with it wrapped firmly in a bag, and proceeds to drown his sorrows in the worst beer that Garreg Mach has to offer. Usually when he visits the taverns around here, he has plenty of company. Tonight, he just sits alone, and jealously watches a carefree pair of girls laughing a few tables over. Their hair shines in the low light, and when they laugh they smile brightly, freely.

Sylvain feels sick.

Despite that, it takes him a while to tear himself away from his miserable little corner. He steps out of the tavern, and the warm anger in his chest suddenly dies in the cool night air. It’s a clear night, and the bright stars make it all seem so melodramatic, and he’s disgusted himself for a whole new set of reasons. Self-hatred over self-hatred, he muses bitterly. That has to be a new low.

He trudges wearily back up towards the monastery, the alcohol in his bloodstream turning everything woozy and indistinct. Stumbling through the gates, he walks past the pond towards the dormitories, intending to go straight to bed, when he notices a familiar figure sitting on the end of the jetty.

“Mercedes?” he slurs, stopping by the fishkeeper’s stall.

She turns. “Oh! Hello, Sylvain,” she says. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

He laughs, but it sounds hollow even to him. “Yeah. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Getting to her feet, Mercedes frowns at him. “Are you ok?” she asks gently.

“Ha,” he says, not even able to muster a full laugh. “Just wonderful, Mercie.”

The little crease between her eyes deepens, and it’s a bit adorable, even through the drunken haze. “Come on,” she says. “Don’t stand so close to the water. I’m worried you’re going to fall in.”

“That might be quite nice,” Sylvain mutters as she takes his elbow, and leads him away towards the greenhouse. When they reach the steps up to the second floor of the dormitories, Mercedes pushes him firmly down so he can sit for a moment.

“Just rest here a little,” she tells him. “I don’t want you to fall over on the stairs.”

He sighs, and leans against the wall, dropping the bag with his skirt in at his feet. He’s slightly surprised he’s managed to hold onto it this whole time.

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Mercedes suggests. “Just so you don’t fall asleep out here. Did you have a nice time in town?”

“No,” Sylvain mutters, mostly addressing it to the wall. “It was shit.”

“Oh.” He can hear the sorrow in her voice, and it’s probably the most genuinely sad he’s ever heard someone sound over somebody else’s crappy day. “Did you buy something nice at least?” she asks, gesturing at his shopping bag. “That’s a lovely shop. Who were you shopping for?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath, then sits up straight, staring out towards the pond again. “Myself,” he says dully. “I bought a skirt.”

To her credit, Mercedes only goes quiet for a short moment. “Well, that sounds nice!” she says brightly. “What kind of skirt?”

He turns to look at her. The smile on her face seems just as genuine as all her others. Either she’s pretending all the time, Sylvain thinks, or she somehow doesn’t mind about this.

“Blue,” he says bluntly.

“That’s lovely,” she replies, then something lights up in her face. “Oh!” she exclaims. “If you’re trying out skirts, perhaps you’d like me to show you how to do some makeup?”

Sylvain’s stomach lurches, and he rests his elbows on his knees so he can lean his forehead on the heels of his hands. “I can’t ask you to do that, Mercie.”

She huffs in annoyance. “Whyever not? I love doing it, you know.”

He looks up at her again in disbelief. “Because I’m… well, I’m _me_ , aren’t I?” he says, gesturing vaguely at his whole body. “It’s ridiculous.”

“That’s not at all true,” she protests. “Please, Sylvain? I’ll leave it if you really don’t want me too, but I think it would be fun.”

He sighs. “You did Ingrid’s makeup for the ball, didn’t you?” he asks.

She smiles eagerly. “Yes! Though she wasn’t too fond of the idea.”

“Fine,” Sylvain blurts out, the reckless feeling that had carried him through the purchase of the skirt suddenly spurring him on once again. “Fine, you can do some makeup for me.”

Mercedes beams at him, and Sylvain’s chest aches.

  


* * *

  


Her knock on his door the next evening is light but firm, and Sylvain springs from his distracted reverie to open it. Mercedes is holding a small bag that he assumes contains the cosmetics she’d promised, and she smiles warmly at him.

“Good evening, Sylvain,” she says.

“Hi,” he replies. He stands dumbly in the doorway for a moment, then two rooms down Felix’s door flies suddenly open, banging angrily against the wall.

Felix storms out of his room, then spots them both. A look of disgust draws over his face. “Really?” he says to Mercedes, face twisting. “Ugh, I didn’t think you were the kind of person to get drawn in by _him_.”

Mercedes only has time to raise an eyebrow before he turns and is gone. She sighs, then looks back up at Sylvain. “Shall we get going, then?” she asks.

He rubs the back of his neck anxiously. “You really don’t have to do this,” he mutters. “I do have a—a reputation. And people will… assume things if you’re in my room.”

“If that bothered me, I wouldn’t have come,” Mercedes says calmly, then gives him a light push on the chest so that he takes a step backwards into the room.

Following him in, she puts her little bag down on the desk, and begins to take out a small array of little boxes. “Did you want to try putting the skirt on for this?” she asks, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

Sylvain swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Ok,” he stutters out.

“I’ll just turn my back for you!” she says, and does so, facing back towards the door while she hums quietly to herself and fiddles with a flat box.

About to protest, Sylvain stops himself, and takes a deep breath. Quickly, he kicks off his boots and socks, then pulls the skirt out of the drawer he’d shoved it into as soon as he’d got it back to his room. He unfolds it slowly, and shakes it out. Breathes slowly, then steps into it, his trousers still on. Then he holds it up at the waist, and struggles out of his trousers.

When they’re slung over the back of a chair, he begins to try to work out how to fasten the skirt. There’s a series of holes up one side, and a piece of cord threaded through the lowest few. Sylvain begins to do his best to wind it through the rest of the holes, but it looks messy and won’t lie flat however he tries it. Well, he supposes he’s usually trying to get skirts off people, not on.

He gives up, and coughs slightly. “Uh, Mercedes?” he says.

She turns around, and looks questioningly at him.

“How do I do this up?” he asks, and he can feel himself blushing.

“Oh, let me help!” she says, and hurries over to him. Her fingers are warm against him, even though his shirt is still between them and his skin. She’s deft and quick with it, and the skirt is soon sitting snugly against Sylvain’s waist as she steps back.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “I think it’s time for your makeup!”

Sylvain laughs at her eagerness, glad for the release of some of the strange tension thrilling through him. He follows her gladly back towards the desk, and sits down in the chair that she’s moved perpendicular to the desk. As she stands in front of him, opening more of her boxes and laying them out to her satisfaction, he feels his nervousness begin to rise again in his chest. He watches her fingers, sure and elegant, unpacking and adjusting.

When she turns back to face him, she must see the trepidation on his face, because she gives him a smile that’s so gentle it almost hurts in his chest. She picks up a brush, and lets it hover over his cheek.

“Will you trust me?” she says, voice warm and soft.

Sylvain breathes in deeply, then lets it out in a whoosh. Then he nods, and Mercedes begins to apply the first powder. When she asks him to shut his eyes, and starts delicately painting the lids with a small brush, he lets himself relax into it, and he doesn’t open them again even when she moves on to his cheeks and lips. He falls into a daze, letting her take control, tilting his head slightly from time to time with soft presses of her fingers.

Finally she steps back, and Sylvain blinks his eyes open in surprise at the loss of her closeness. She smiles widely.

“Do you want to see?” she asks eagerly, clasping her hands together.

Anxious, he nods back at her, and gets up to walk over to the small mirror on the wall. When he sees himself, he could swear he feels something drop in his stomach. He’s not sure, all of sudden, whether he was more afraid of liking this or hating it. But his own elegance shocks him, and he lifts a hand to push his hair back. Mercedes has turned him into something radiant, not gaudy or over-painted like he’d half feared.

Suddenly she’s next to him, reaching up to push his hand away from his hair so she can adjust it herself.

“Do you like it?” she asks, sounding almost shy for the first time since her arrival.

All he can do is nod. Her face brightens, and she fusses with his hair, running gentle fingers through it. She arranges it carefully, creating more of a parting and tucking sections of it back behind his ears. Then she retrieves a pin from her pockets, and positions it carefully above one ear. When Sylvain glances back into the mirror, he grimaces.

“It looks so… odd,” he says, turning back to Mercedes. “Sometimes I wish I had hair like yours.”

He reaches out, runs a cautious finger over the hair draped over her shoulder. It’s smooth and soft, like fine silk. She takes a small step forwards, in a way that seems almost involuntary, and Sylvain looks back into the mirror as she reaches up to take the hairpin out again.

“You could grow it,” she suggests, her fingers carding through his hair again.

He hums, still staring at his reflection. He feels stripped raw, like he’s been disembowelled and is presenting his liver proudly to an audience.

“Sylvain,” Mercedes whispers. “Look at me.”

It takes him a moment to muster the courage to look into her eyes, but when he does, she just smiles tenderly.

“You look beautiful,” she says.

Suddenly Sylvain is very aware of how close she is. Her face is tipped sweetly up towards him, and his hand is still on her hair.

“Mercedes,” he murmurs. “Can I kiss you?”

She looks into his eyes for a moment, searches his face, and then she is leaning up to catch his lips. His hands go instinctively to her waist, and she is as soft and pliant as her lips. She licks gently into his mouth, and his fingers tighten on her instinctively as he moans into it. Pulling her in closer, he breaks the kiss, gasping slightly for breath.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks. Mercedes nods, and lifts her hands to run through his hair again.

“I’m sure, Sylvain,” she says. “You look so lovely like this.”

He feels his arousal sharpen when she says that, and he inhales sharply. Her gentle smile gains the barest hint of an edge. “Oh,” she murmurs. “Do you like being told you’re beautiful, then?”

Sylvain’s chest feels tight. “Mercedes,” he rasps out.

“Because you really are,” she continues, her fingers smoothing his hair back. “So very, very pretty.” Her lips press against his neck, and she continues to speak, her breath warm on his skin as she pushes aside the collar of his shirt. “It suits you.” She bites softly at his collarbone. “And I think,” her tongue licks over the bitten skin, “That you should dress like this more often.” Finally, she lifts her head again. “Don’t you think?” she asks.

“I…” Sylvain is rarely speechless, but now is apparently one of those times. The slight dampness on his skin prickles in the cool air, and he can barely think. “Ah, _yes_. Yes.”

She smiles, and cups his cheek, running her thumb over his lower lip. “This is a very pretty colour on you,” she remarks, voice just as airy and light as usual. “I think we should well and truly mess it up, don’t you?”

Sylvain suddenly finds himself again, and lets out a low sound that is almost a growl, fisting his hands in her shirt so he can drag her into a kiss. She laughs against his lips, then opens wonderfully for him. Mercedes kisses with a single-minded intensity that somehow carries her usual softness too. She ends up with one hand grasping tightly at his shirt, and the other pulling deliciously in his hair.

Pulling back, she murmurs, “I think we’re both wearing a few too many clothes.” Her hands go to the tie of Sylvain’s skirt, and he takes an involuntary half-step backwards.

“I—no,” he says, and feels his ears heat. “I’d rather… keep mine on.”

Her surprise turns to a smirk, and she instead moves her hands to the buttons of her shirt. “In that case,” she says, “ _I_ am wearing far too many clothes.”

She undoes the buttons with a slowness that turns Sylvain breathless. The gentle swell of her stomach above her skirt is smooth and warm when he skims his fingers over the skin. Then she unfastens her breast-band, and he steps in closer, eager to feel her against him more fully. Kissing her again, he cups one full breast in a hand, and runs his thumb in a circle around the nipple. It is peaked and firm, and when his touch glances over it, Mercedes makes a slight noise in the back of her throat. Grinning to himself, he does it again.

But Mercedes quickly seems to grow tired of this, and pushes Sylvain back towards his bed. “Will you lie down for me?” she asks. He hesitates for a moment, then quickly pulls off the undergarments he has beneath his skirt. His cock catches against its fabric, hard and heavy, and he hurries to lie down. As he does so, Mercedes deftly removes her shoes, stockings, and underwear, and stands beside the bed in only her skirt. Sylvain looks up at her, eyes wide, and she brings a hand to her breast to lazily play with one nipple. “Do you think,” she says, “I could mess up that pretty makeup even more?”

Sylvain's throat feels dry, so he just nods, eyes still raking over her body. Slowly, Mercedes begins to hike up her skirt, lifting it to reveal pale thighs, and a cluster of curls, darker than her hair, but still fair.

“Please,” Sylvain says.

“Oh, but I’m just savouring how good you look, lying there ready for me,” she says.

Sylvain suppresses a whine. “Fuck, Mercedes, you’re going to kill me.”

She laughs, loud and full and unexpectedly joyous. “All right, all right.” The skirt comes undone quickly, and she lets it drop to the floor. As she walks towards him, naked and glorious, Sylvain savours the thrill of it. Her curves are soft and generous, and he’s suddenly desperate to feel the texture of the skin on her stomach, wrap a hand around her thigh, run fingers over the slope of her shoulder. She comes to stand right beside his head, hands still toying with her nipples.

He pushes himself up a little, reaches out, and grasps her hips, pulling her down on top of him. With a small startled noise, Mercedes goes willingly, and settles on her side next to him. Sylvain twists to bring her into his arms, and kisses her again, enjoying how she goes soft and pliant when he brushes fingers down her spine.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

She hooks one leg around his hip as his hand skirts down over her hip. “Yes,” she breathes against his mouth, and Sylvain gently pushes his hand between her thighs.

The way her breath stutters as he slides a finger between her lips and finds her wet already sends a shiver through him. Sylvain buries his face in her neck, and sets himself firmly to coaxing as many little noises and hitches of breath as he can out of her. Mercedes gasps happily against him, presses herself against his hand, and then apparently abruptly decides she’s had enough, and pushes him away. Sitting up, then turning to kneel, she reaches out to stroke her hands through his hair again. Sylvain feels like he’s been struck dumb, twisting to look at her better and ending up lying sprawled on his back.

“The best way to really ruin this pretty makeup,” she muses, lowering a hand to brush his lips again, “Would be for me to sit on your face.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sylvain gasps out, almost before he’s processed what she’s saying. “Please, please, please.”

Mercedes shuffles forward to place one knee beside him, then swings the other leg over so she’s perched kneeling above him. “Oh, good,” she says. “I was hoping you’d like that idea.”

Sylvain runs a hand up the inside of her thigh, and the skin there is just as smooth as it had looked. He pushes her hips down so she’s almost sat on his chest, and turns his head into her leg to press kisses into it. She laughs, and pulls up the corner of his shirt collar to wipe at his mouth. “Let’s just get the worst of this off, first,” she says, carefully removing as much of the lipstick as she can.

Sylvain blushes, feels his ears going hot. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing it. When she’s done, Mercedes hums in satisfaction above him, and twines her fingers into his hair. He buries his face in the soft skin of her thigh again, and moves up towards the top of it with tiny bites. When he’s close enough that her coarse curls are brushing his cheek, pauses, and waits until she shifts impatiently above him. Then he huffs a laugh, and slides slightly down the bed so he’s fully underneath her, and pushes his face up to lick a firm stripe against her folds. Mercedes lets out a startled noise, then presses her hips down slightly, grinding slightly onto his face.

“Is that OK?” she asks.

He just moans into her, working his tongue against her. “Oh, oh,” she begins to murmur. “Ah, yes, you’re very good at this.”

Sylvain lets out another pleased hum, and lifts his hands to wrap around her thighs, pulling her down more firmly. Then he grabs at a soft handful of buttock, and Mercedes makes another involuntary noise when he digs his fingernails in slightly.

“ _Ah_ , yes, you’re so—oh, _fuck_ ,” she says, and to hear pious Mercedes reduced to expletives does something to Sylvain. She’s much more talkative than he would have said if he’d tried to hazard a guess beforehand, but he decides he rather likes it. “I wonder,” she says breathlessly. “Would you like me to tell you what a good girl you are?”

Startled, Sylvain stops moving for a moment. Then he feels how hard he is against the fabric of his skirt, the slight stiffness of skin around his eyelids from the makeup Mercedes had given him, and he moans into her. He nods his head quickly, and pushes his tongue against her clit.

She sighs, low and breathy. “Mmm, exactly like that. What a good girl.” Her fingers tangle in his hair, and he circles his tongue eagerly. The muscles of her thighs are beginning to go tense around his head, and her breathing is quickening further and further.

Sylvain lets her grind her hips against him, revels in the slightly sour taste of her, the dampness collecting on her skin, her moans and gasped-out praise. Her hands clench and unclench in his hair, then stutter suddenly as she tenses, then spasms slightly. With her choked moan, Sylvain feels the wash of her orgasm in her tightened muscles, and licks eagerly at her.

As her breathing slowly begins to even out, Mercedes lifts herself back onto her knees, then awkwardly moves off Sylvain, collapsing to sit squashed against the wall, her legs curled under herself. She reaches out to pet his hair, stroking it gently.

She sighs. “You look so ruined now. It’s beautiful.”

Sylvain breaks their eye contact, turning his head away to bury it in the sheets, and she laughs. It’s not like he hasn’t done things like this to girls before—in this very room, on this very bed. But even though he’s wearing far more clothes than he usually would be at this point, he feels naked and bare.

Sliding down to lie beside him, Mercedes carefully slides a hand under his cheek, and turns his face towards her. Then she leans in and kisses him again, lips gentle and soft.

“Mmmm,” she says when she pulls away. “I can taste myself on you. You’re so good to me.”

His breath catches, and he turns onto his side, pulls her against him, burying his hands in her hair as he kisses her deeply. She shifts against him, and trails one hand down his side until she reaches the hem of his skirt. Toying with it, her fingers begin to inch up his thigh underneath, trailing teasingly upwards.

When she breaks the kiss, she’s rubbing small circles just under the curve of his hip bone, the skirt ruched up and probably wrinkling. Sylvain decides he doesn’t care.

“I think,” Mercedes whispers next to his ear, “ that you deserve a reward for that.”

Sylvain moans at the sensation of hot breath on his skin. “Mercedes,” he gasps, “Please.”

She grins, then slides easily down the bed and nudges him until he shifts up the bed to lie on his back again. Kneeling, she positions herself between his thighs, and takes hold of the skirt again. “I like you in this skirt,” she muses aloud. “But I think I like the thought of… hmm, I think _defiling_ it is a good way to put it.” She looks up at him with a grin. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Once again, Sylvain finds he has no words, and just nods back at her, mouth open. Gently, she lifts the skirt over his cock, placing it carefully so the folds still fall around his thighs. Then she dips her head, and presses a kiss to the underside.

He’d thought he was as hard as he could get, but Sylvain somehow gets even harder. His ears fill with a dull ringing as she mouths around his balls, her lips warm and soft and damp. Then she sucks one fully into her mouth, and he uncontrollably jerks his hips up, desperate for more.

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” he pants out.

Mercedes licks firmly up the length of his cock before she replies. “It’s quite all right,” she says. “You can move if you want. I can manage.”

Looking down at her, Sylvain is almost too overwhelmed to reply. Her hair is falling over one shoulder, and one hand is buried in the fabric of his skirt. With her lips swollen and parted, smiling gently at him, she’s like some kind of vision. “Are you sure?” he croaks.

She nods, then wraps her fingers around the base of his cock, and takes it into her mouth. Then her tongue flicks over the top, and Sylvain shifts his hips again. When she hums in encouragement, he tentatively thrusts upwards into her mouth. In response, she takes even more of him into her mouth, until he feels himself hit the back of her throat, soft and wet. He freezes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, lifting a hand to stroke through her hair. “And besides, I don’t think I’ll last very long if you do that.” Not removing her mouth, Mercedes makes an amused noise, then covers his hand with one of her own. She moves it to the back of her head, and then begins to bob her head on his cock.

That’s as sure a sign as he’s going to get, Sylvain thinks, and he gives in. He lets himself twist his fingers lightly into her hair, and thrust up, fucking into her mouth. She moans around him, and he drops his head back, overwhelmed. As he promised, he doesn’t last long. Between the sensation of her throat around him, and the way the fabric of his skirt moves against his hips every time he thrusts, it’s not long before he’s gasping, and tugging lightly on Mercedes’s hair to pull her head away from him.

“ _Ah_ , Mercie, I’m, I’m close.”

She removes her mouth with an audibly wet sound that he should probably find disgusting, but is just incredibly hot, and then she’s using her hand while she murmurs to him. “Oh, you look so wonderful like this. Come for me, come on, Sylvain—”

Then she licks again at his tight balls, and Sylvain comes with a hoarse cry, all over her hand, his shirt, his skirt. He brings his hand to his mouth to muffle the sounds he makes as he rides out the aftershocks, the muscles of his lower abdomen still spasming slightly. He only vaguely notices the loss of Mercedes’s warmth, and is startled when she speaks again.

“Do you have a handkerchief somewhere?” she asks.

Sylvain struggles into a sitting position, propping himself up on his elbows. “In the top drawer,” he replies, still out of breath.

She retrieves one, and wipes off her hand, then comes back over to Sylvain. “Here,” she says, dabbing at the worst of the mess on his clothes. “Sorry, I hope it doesn’t stain..”

“If it does,” Sylvain says, still feeling slightly dazed, “It was worth it.”

Smiling back at him, she balls up the handkerchief and leaves it on the desk, then sits down beside him on the narrow bed. “You’ll probably want to clean this off before you sleep,” she says, cupping his face and brushing a finger lightly along the ridge of his brow.

He sighs, and slumps into her, burying his face in her shoulder. “In a minute,” he says.

She strokes his hair, then slowly leans back until they’re lying down, and drags the blanket over them both. “Is this ok?” she whispers, fingers still moving rhythmically against his scalp.

“Yes,” Sylvain replies, muffled slightly by her skin. “Don’t stop.”


End file.
